Danse Macabre
by Twinings
Summary: Death at midnight plays a dance tune, Zig, zig, zig, on his violin. The winter wind blows and the night is dark, Moans are heard in the linden trees. Through the gloom, white skeletons pass, Running and leaping in their shrouds. [CAT]


Disclaimeriness: Do I bloody well _look_ like I own the Scarecrow? Or the Riddler? Or _any_ other Batman characters? Come on, people.

Part of the CAT series. Go to www. freewebs. com/ bitemetechie/ catverse. html (sans spaces) for the placement. This one is immediately before Headstones of Henchgirls.

Thanks for reading.

* * *

The phone had been ringing for quite some time. 

The first time it had gone off, Crane had spent a few minutes searching for the source of the annoying beeping sound he could just barely hear. Then it had stopped, and he had forgotten about it.

It happened again. This time he was closer, and was able to recognize the melody as "Danse Macabre." It stopped before he could figure out where it was coming from.

The third time it happened, he was adjusting the rabbit ears on the television, trying to catch the evening news. He hadn't seen those henchgirls of his in more than four days, and whatever unnameable things they had been up to in his absence, he thought he deserved fair warning.

And then the cell phone rang.

It had to belong to one of them. He had never cared to own one, and no one else who had ever entered this lair would have been in any condition to leave personal belongings lying around the common room.

Maybe whichever woman owned it had left it behind on purpose as a way to get in touch with him. It was so like them to come up with some needlessly complicated scheme rather than just leaving him a _note_.

He followed the sound of the devil's dancing feet and came up with a massive tangle of cords behind the TV, one of which proved to be attached to a dark blue cell phone that vibrated cheerfully in his hand. The ringtone cut off just before he flipped it open.

"17 MISSED CALLS," the screen proclaimed. With a raised eyebrow, he cycled through the list.

A few of them were Gotham numbers with no names attached. A few others were family members, as far as he could tell. One or two had names attached, the kinds of nicknames the girls habitually bestowed on their friends. But the majority were tagged with nothing more than a question mark.

Nygma? It just figured. He had some kind of bizarre fondness for Al and the Captain, probably because they had such a soft spot for _him_. It wouldn't be easy for a man like the Riddler to ignore all that attention…and the food.

Ah. It was only logical to conclude that those two had brought Techie to visit "Eddums," and were calling to remind him to eat a sandwich.

Come to think of it, he _was_ feeling a mite peckish. That might have something to do with the fact that even a "we're obviously lying when we say we're not cooking to relieve a guilty conscience" feast couldn't stick around through four days of distraction.

But if he got into the leftovers, it was going to be because he wanted to, not because they told him to.

He flipped through the phone book with the general idea of coming up with some blackmail material.

?, 1.0, 2.0, Aunt Nancy, Boy Wondah, Brothah Man, Bugs & G, Cathy, Cory, Daddy-o, Effie, Evan, Grands, Granny & Granddaddy, Hallelu, Heather, Hellbaby, Hugh & Caleb, Jason, Jeffers, Jimmy, Johann, Jonathan & Squirrely, Kennith & Kurt, Lai Lai, Mama, Meimei, Merce Radio, Neal, Numbah One, Ops, Rachel, Scott, Spence, Steph & Barb, Tim, Travis, Tweety, White Laura…He hadn't even realized they knew that many people. Why couldn't they have picked someone else instead of attaching themselves to _him_?

The phone rang again. He nearly dropped it. Stupid thing.

The screen lit up with a bright green question mark. So they _had_ gone to Nygma. Crane considered not answering, just to make them sweat…but, no, if they got worried they might decide to come back and check on him. He pressed the button.

"What?"

"Hello?" It was the Riddler speaking, with a note of worry in his voice, and not being the slightest bit clever.

There couldn't be anything _wrong_, could there?

"Nygma?" he said pointlessly.

"Crane?" was his response. "Nova isn't there, is she? Or Al?" Nova…that was the way the Captain always introduced herself, but the name didn't seem to have stuck with anyone but Edward.

"I thought they were with you."

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Jonathan?" Edward sounded like a man about to confess that he had slept with his best friend's wife.

"What?" Crane snapped.

"You might want to sit down for this." Crane glanced at the ratty old sofa behind him, wondering idly if there had ever been a piece of news he'd had to take sitting down.

"_What_?" he repeated.

"You haven't been listening to the word on the street, have you?"

"Do I ever?"

"You might want to start. People are saying your girls are…"

"They're not my girls." Edward said nothing. "Well, Nygma? What are people saying about them? Don't tell me they're dead."

"Uh…"

Crane said down rather abruptly, missed the couch entirely, ended up on the rug, and found he didn't mind so much.

"They're _dead_?"

"That's what I've heard."

He laughed, a sharp bark brought on by disbelief.

"Dead?" Dead? Dead! They couldn't be! They had just been petting him and forcing him to eat less than a week ago. People like that couldn't just interrupt a burst of affection to disappear forever.

_Yes, they do. All the time, everywhere, especially in Gotham. You know that. You know that better than anyone._

But, _dead_? _Those_ three? It was too good to be true.

He started to giggle. He tried to hold it in, he really did, but the giggles just came bubbling up. Before he could stop himself, he was lying on the floor, helplessly laughing harder than he ever had before, save for an occasion or two when he'd found himself on the wrong end of a dose of Joker Venom.

"I don't see what's so funny." Edward sounded wounded. Jonathan laughed harder, until he couldn't breathe and he had tears running down his face.

"Dead!" he gasped. "Gone! Really gone!" It was just too much.

"Yes, _really_ gone." Edward sounded so downhearted, if Crane had been able to speak clearly, he would have mocked him mercilessly. He missed them! The Riddler was sad to see them go, and the man they had made their walking squeaky toy was…was…was…

His laughter tapered off, taking him down from near hysterics to hearty chuckling to sporadic giggles to, finally, nothing.

He found himself lying on the floor in the fetal position, gasping for breath, with the evidence of tears still fresh on his face. If the girls had seen him, the hug session would have been inevitable.

"Tell me there's proof," he said suddenly, like a child begging for protection from the monster under the bed. "Corpses? Have you seen the bodies?"

"Only pictures. And, no, I will not get you copies. You should be proud, though. Half the hired muscle in this town and a few of the higher ups are out of commission thanks to the nightmares they've had after looking at the crime scene photos. There wasn't enough left intact to be one hundred percent sure it was really them…until now."

Crane grinned. Nygma was one of those people who hadn't been sleeping well of late, if he knew anything about measuring fear through vocal cues—which, of course, he did.

Those parts of his mind that weren't busy gloating over his unexpected freedom converged on poor dear Edward, intent on maximizing his fear and drawing out all the gory details for leisurely perusal later.

"Tell me everything."

And he did mean _everything_. Anything involving his—late—minions would have to be one hell of a story.

* * *

_Author's note: Aw, I'm happy for him, aren't you? I should drop dead more often. We all should._

_Now, before the next time _you_ drop dead, go read "Headstones of Henchgirls" by BiteMeTechie._


End file.
